


Two Weeks in Flagstaff

by saberivojo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saberivojo/pseuds/saberivojo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda for 5:16. – I asked for prompts and  jennruss7 (who is kind of shy and never asks for anything gave me this one.) I would love to see a fic that goes into why Sam ran away in Flagstaff and how that all played out with Dean and John. </p>
<p>I don't even know what I was running for - I guess I just felt like it.  ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Weeks in Flagstaff

Title: Two Weeks in Flagstaff  
Author: Saberivojo  
Genre: Gen, PG13 for language  
Characters: John, Sam and Dean  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just like playing with the boys.  
Summary: Coda for 5:16. –For the prompt "I would love to see a fic that goes into why Sam ran away in Flagstaff and how that all played out with Dean and John." 

_I don't even know what I was running for - I guess I just felt like it. ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 1_

It starts with the guns. 

“Sammy, how come those guns aren’t clean?” Dad rumbles, his voice low. It reminds Sam of an approaching thunderstorm. 

“Forgot.”

“Get it done. Now.”

Sam is in the living room with a can of soda on the battered coffee table and a book in his lap.

“Dad, it’s summer for Christ’s sakes. How about a little slack?” 

“How about you do what you’re told.” It isn’t a question. Dad stops packing his duffle and throws a sharp glance at Sam. Dean is in the kitchen, making a sandwich but Sam knows Dean can hear what is going on. 

The house is the size of a fucking postage stamp. 

Sam doesn’t move. Doesn’t put the book down. “They’ll be done when you come back.”

“I didn’t say to get ‘em done before I came back. I said to get ‘em done now.” 

“C’mon Dad. What’s it matter? Now? In fifteen minutes or in a day? I’ll get it done.” 

Sam hears his father’s sharp intake of breath. He’s familiar with that sound. It is often the precursor to the infamous John Winchester bellow. Sam listens to the soft clink of glass as Dean sets down his plate in the kitchen. That is one of the reasons Sam thinks it is stupid that Dad yells; Sam can hear just fine. 

“It matters ‘cause I say it matters. Do it.” Sam doesn’t have to look to know that Dad is glaring at him from across the small room. 

“Whatever.” Sam mumbles low, his voice just loud enough to make a statement.

“What you say?” 

“Whatever, Dad. Simple.”

Dad drops the duffle on the ground. It thuds ominously on the floor. “When I tell you to do something, I expect an acknowledgment, not some mumbled pansy assed reply. You hear me, Sam?”

“Yeah.” Sam picks up his soda, swallows a mouthful and then lays it down carefully on the table.

“What?” Dad’s voice is sharp and staccato and damn if Dad isn’t gonna make Sam say it. Sam knows all of the tricks. Heel. Sit. Come. Fetch. It’s a trained dog act and Sam is the poodle.

But poodles are smart and they might be trained, but that doesn’t mean they can’t snap one in a while.

“Yeah, I hear you.” Sam stills the leg that wants to bounce. He is playing with fire but sometimes he just doesn’t care.

“Sam.” Dad isn’t yelling like Sam had figured he would, instead there is that low growl that Dad makes. 

Dad isn’t a poodle; he is a fucking pit bull.

“Yes.” 

“Not good enough, Sam.”

Sam hates it. 

Hates this. 

“Yes, sir.” Never have two words been laced with such disrespect. They drip insolence. 

Sam is rather impressed with himself, though. He’d said it and jumped through the hoop. 

Game tied at least. 

Dad is across the room in a second in full blown “don’t fuck with me” mode. He grabs Sam roughly by the collar and gives him a little shake. It’s not terribly hard but the message is clear. Dad wants to make sure that Sam knows exactly where he stands on this. “If I ever hear ‘yes, sir’ come out of your mouth like that again, you and I are gonna dance. That’s a promise, Sam.” Dad punctuates the sentence with a sharp index finger to Sam’s chest. Damn, even the man’s index finger hurts like a sonofabitch.

Sam swallows hard. As much as he wants to bait his father, now that he has his undivided attention he would prefer to back away from the fury that is John Winchester. It irritates the shit out of him because he knows damn well what he has done to bring the wrath of Dad down on him. It’s true that he is pushing buttons, but sometimes Sam can’t stop it. He wants to get his father mad, wants to know that he is the one who pissed him off but most of all he wants to win the fight. Dad narrows his eyes and holds Sam’s for another long second and then releases the collar hold on him. Sam stands, breathing heavy with his heart hammering in his chest. 

“And because you just can’t seem to remember what you need to do, you can add another two miles to the five you’re already gonna run today.” 

Dad turns grabs his duffle and strides out the front door. It slams loudly in the relative quiet of the house. 

Sam breathes a sigh when he hears the truck start up.

A moment later, Dean walks into the living room with a brown paper bag in his left hand and quickly reaches out and cuffs Sam lightly on the head with his right.

“Dude, what the fuck’s your problem? Jesus, Sam.” Dean pulls the keys out of his pocket. Sam can tell 

Dean’s pissed. Oh well, wait in line Dean. Dean is heading off to work at the garage and Sam is fine with that. He doesn’t need Dean dogging him all day. 

“Don’t be such a dick.” Dean remarks as he stalks out after his father, slamming the door behind him.  
Sam stands, bangs the book hard on the coffee table and heads to the gun duffle. 

*********************************************************************************  
Sam hates his life. 

He is sick of it. He is sick of training, sick of cleaning guns, sick of working his ass off with nothing more than the lack of punishment as an incentive to do it. 

Sam realizes, though, that the lack of punishment is a pretty good incentive. 

Negative motivation. 

Sam learned about that in school. But wasn’t there supposed to be positive motivation too? Sam racks his brain for something positive. He tries to remember the last time John Winchester had pulled him into a hug or even gave him an attaboy. 

It has been a while. 

Whatever. He doesn’t need John Winchester’s approval for jack shit.

It doesn’t matter. The bottom line is that what started out as a five miler is now seven, simply because Sam doesn’t seem to be able to keep his mouth shut.

So he runs. By himself. Dean was in charge and even though Dean annoyed Sam beyond measure sometimes, it could be Dean’s ass on the line if Sam didn’t do what he was supposed to do. The old chain of command. Dad was Dean’s CO and Dean was Sam’s CO. Dean could and would be held as accountable as Sam. When Dad came back he would ask if Sam had run. Dean would have to cover for him or Sam would have to lie about the run. 

Lying to Dad was never a smart idea. He was already on the man’s shit list. Dad was like a fuckin’ bloodhound when it came to sniffing out lies. So Sam runs. 

Running isn’t really all that bad. There is something therapeutic about the rhythm of sneaker on blacktop; there is a cadence and comfort knowing his body can do this. Just Sam and the road. There is monotony and time to think. Sam likes to run, but the fact that he has to run? 

Well, that is the problem.

That and the thinking. Because whenever Sam has a problem, thinking it through usually helps, but in this case, the problem is the thinking. He is tired of trying to please a man who cannot be pleased. How fucking stupid is that? So he is running even if Dad is nowhere around to see if it gets done. Because he was told to run. It is expected. Just knowing that he has to run or Dad is gonna kick his ass, well that just naturally makes him want to stop.

It is stupid and adolescent, and totally a dumb move, but Sam doesn’t care. Dad is such a control freak that he has Sam doing exactly what he told him to do. It grates on Sam’s nerves like ground glass.  
So he stops. Half way through the run, he just stops. If Dad asked, well he fucking ran and Dean wouldn’t have to cover and Dad wasn’t due home anytime soon so fuck it

Fuck him. 

Sam takes a deep breath. The air is unseasonably hot even for Texas but whatever. He looks around at the place he chose to take a stand. The spot where he decided to draw a line in the sand and tell Dad to fuck himself.

He is standing on the blacktop on some nondescript road, breathing hard and fast. Here and now. Sam owes no one nothing. 

No sir, not a damn thing. 

Nosir, yessir, nosir, yessir. Sam curls his lip, half snarl, and half grimace. Fuck this shit.  
Right then and there he makes he makes a decision. A choice. Dad wanted him to run. He will run. 

***********************************************************************************  
“Sammy!”

Dean doesn’t know why his dickhead brother is being more of a dickhead than usual but it really doesn’t matter. After this morning with Dad, he might have just as well drawn a big old target on his back.  
It has been a while since Dean had seen Dad was so pissed. If he hadn’t wanted to get started on the hunt  
than maybe Sam would have found himself in more trouble than a seven- mile run.

How the hell was Dean supposed to run interference with Dad and Sam when Sam insisted on being a moron? 

He glances at his watch. It is almost 7pm and the garage was only open ‘till 5 but Steph Myers had stopped by and Dean never could say no to a pretty girl. Yeah, she was low a little oil, but that was just an excuse for both of them. Dean smiles at the thought. The girl knew a thing or two about lubrication.

The house is quiet, but that’s okay. Sam is probably holed up in their room, licking his wounds and trying to find some more shit to do to piss off Dad.

“Sam, dude. Let’s call in a pizza. I’ll even let you order half Veggie Delight.” Dean yells in the general direction of their room. Dean smiles to himself. Veggie Delight really doesn’t taste that bad and it makes the kid think he is eating healthy. Dean’s stomach grumbles at the lack of food. That sandwich had been wolfed down at 12. “The other half’s gonna be Meat Attack though, ‘cause I’m starving.” 

“Sam.” 

Suddenly Dean stops. All thoughts of pizza vanish. Something is wrong, terribly wrong. Dean reaches down and pulls his knife from his boot. Hell, if someone was here, with all of Dean’s bellowing he has surely been found out. 

Luckily the place is small. Dean checks rooms carefully, but heads to their room where he is gonna kill his brother. Making me skulk around through the house like a fuckin’ Winchester-ninja. 

He opens the door quickly and prepares himself to either kill Sam or kill whoever is in with Sam.

Nothing. 

No Sam. 

It takes Dean about 45 seconds to figure it out. Just long enough to go from pissed to losing his shit. 

**

Dean gives himself all that night and into the next day to look for Sam before he calls Dad. He rolls his shoulders and tries to keep the tremor from his voice. He is nineteen, for Christ’s sake. He can handle this. He fully expects it to go to voicemail, and for once Dean wants that. He doesn’t want the live John Winchester version of the beat down that is going to happen. He pulls the Impala over and waits for the beep.

Of course, Dad picks up.

“This better be good, Dean. I’m knee deep in water sprites and workin’ on about an hour and a half of sleep.”

There’s no easy way to say it, no way to ease into this conversation. “Sammy’s gone, Dad.”

“What do ya mean, he’s gone? “

“Gone, Dad. He’s…” Dean searches for a word that doesn’t sound quite so bad. “…lost.” The tremor is there, Dean can’t help it. 

“Well fuckin’ find him then!” Dean can hear the anger through the phone. He is so fucked. Sammy is so fucked. 

“Dad, I’ve looked. Friends. Hangouts. The bus station. The library. I even checked at the damn police station, hospital and…” Dean stutters, his voice shaking. “…even the morgue. Dad he’s not here.”

“Jesus, Dean. What the hell happened? Sulfur? EMF? Didja see anything? Damn it, Dean!”

Dean can’t breathe. He’s lost his brother. There is a long involuntary shudder. “Dad, I don’t know.” Dean can’t remember a time when he was this close to blubbering. His breath hitches hard and then suddenly he is throwing the door open and puking on the side of the road. His belly clenches with the force of it, nothing but coffee to harf up but it’s enough. Dean can hear his father yelling from the cell phone still in his hand. 

“DEAN, DEAN!” 

“C’mon, boy. Breathe.” Dad’s voice is a notch lower. “Talk to me.”

Dean takes a breath, wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He is so fucking screwed. Sam is gone. Another breath and he puts the phone to his ear. He can do this. “Dad, I think he ran away. I mean I’m sure he ran away. His duffle is gone. His fuckin’ stupid ass “Catcher in the Rye” book is gone. He’s travelin’ light but he left.”

“He what?” Dean can hear the lack of believability in Dad’s voice. 

“Dad, it’s nothing supernatural. He just left.” For a moment it occurs to Dean how fucking weird it is.  
Dad can believe Sam being stolen in the middle of the night by something but he cannot wrap his head around Sam walking out. 

Dean can though. Dean believes. 

“Fuck! Dean, I’m a half-day away.” Dean is sure his father was pacing now. He can even hear the slight change in background noise as he travels from one part of the room to another. “I’ll be there as quick as I can but run through everything again. Tear that fucking room apart f you need to, see if you can figure anything out. Got it?” 

Dean nods numbly into the phone. He thinks he might hurl again.

“Dean! Do you hear me?”

“Dad, it’s my fault, I didn’t know. I mean…” Dean’s voice is a whispered choke.

There is no gentle in John Winchester not now, no comforting calmness “Man the fuck up Marine." 

Dean isn’t stupid. He knows an order when he hears one. “Yes, sir.” 

The phone slams shut on the other side. 

*************************************************************************************

It turns out that charming Sammy smile works for hitching too. Sam finds himself in a red pick up truck with a pretty red head driving. She likes her music loud and country. Dixie Chicks? God, Dean would blow his cookies. Sam grins as she bellows the chorus a little off key. She turns and winks at him, hair tousled with wind and her green eyes sparking. 

Sam cocks his head, a puzzled expression on his face. That look. He had seen that look many times but never aimed at him before. Always Dean. Sam drops his head a blush creeping up his neck and face. 

The girl laughs and sings louder.

When she drops him off outside of Flagstaff, Sam has reason to blush.

**

Sam hums to himself as he walks along the road. Damn it is a fine day. A little hot, but fine just the same. He stops his humming when he notices the dog. A golden retriever is sitting on the side of the road, head cocked and tongue lolling in the Arizona heat. 

“Hey, boy.” Sam approaches the dog quietly and squats next to him. Sam’s hands reach deep into the golden fur around his neck. No tag, no collar. The dog stands, hind end gyrating with excitement, tail wagging madly with happiness. 

A low whine and the dog is lapping a sloppy wet tongue against Sam’s cheek. If Sam didn’t know any better, he would swear the dog was smiling. He pats the dog one more time. 

“Stay out of the road, dude.” Sam keeps on walking, long legs eating up the ground. Sam hears the dog padding behind him. He listens to the deep, heavy panting of a big, hot dog. He ignores it. This was not some dumb ass stray, despite the lack of collar. The dog is fit and healthy. He belongs to somebody.  
But as he eats up the miles on his way to Flagstaff, the big golden follows, sometimes directly behind, sometimes he wanders off a bit to explore the side of the road. Once Sam glances over to see the dog chasing butterflies in the wildflowers 

Pretty soon the dog trots up to his left side and nuzzles Sam’s hand hanging at his side.

“Dude, who you lookin’ for?” The dog whines again and just keeps pace with Sam walking quietly at his left side. Sam ruffles the dog’s head and then squats down like earlier. He looks in big brown eyes and is once again attacked with a wet tongue. 

“Okay, dog. You wanna hang with me. It’s okay. S‘all good.” The dog barks once. A brief yip. It seemed much too high for such a big dog and Sam laughs.

He hits the Flagstaff city limits, hungry as shit, with a stray dog and a loaded Smith and Wesson at the small of his back. 

He sleeps with the dog curled around him. 

At night it’s always worse. Ragged breaths and dark dreams but the dog grounds him, and in the morning he is more than ready to move again. 

***********************************************************************************

John Winchester hits the motel like a tornado. Dean just wants to stay out of his path. There is little likelihood of that happening though, so he just steps aside.

“Any word, Dean?” 

Dad’s eyes are bloodshot and he has two days worth of beard, looks like he has not slept in as long. 

Welcome to the club, Dad.

“No, sir, not from Sam, but someone matching his description was hitching on US 40 the day he went missing, so maybe he is heading west.” 

“When you find that out?” Dad is heading to the kitchen, he stops at the sink, cups some water in his hand and splashes it on his face, then rubs a hand across the back of his neck. 

“This morning. “ Dean follows his father toward the kitchen. “Dad he’s got three days on us. We need to move now.” Dad looks at Dean and scrubs a grubby hand across his wet beard. He glares hard at Dean with a dripping wet face.

“Don’t you think I know that Dean? Jesus.” His voice raises a notch, clear and sharp in the tiny kitchen 

“This shit might not have happened if you had been doing your job.”

Dean coughs a ragged breath. It’s true. He hadn’t been there. Hadn’t noticed Sam was gonna run. 

“How the hell did this happen, Dean? Where were you when your brother decided to run away?” Dad stands, the water drips idly on the cracked linoleum floor.

“I dunno, Dad. At work.” That and fucking Steph Myers. Dean knows he sounds pissed with an undertone of insolence. His voice is edged with sarcasm. 

“Well, work is fine, Dean, but your brother is your job. Your real job. Why the fuck couldn’t your figure out something was going on?”

Then anger bright and quick. Something he rarely happens to feel with his father. 

“Oh, like figuring out your bitchin’ to Sam about doing the fuckin’ guns might have pissed him off enough to run, Dad. Do you think that maybe that had something to do with it?” Dean can’t believe the words leave his mouth. It is sacrilegious, but damn it, this was Sammy. Sam was gone and Dad was standing in the kitchen giving himself a cat bath.

“Your brother left because you were not here to keep his fuckin’ emo bullshit under control, not because I made him do a fuckin’ CHORE, DEAN.” 

There is a dangerous glint in John Winchester’s eye. Dean has seen it before, but not really aimed in his direction. He ignores the warning. He has done stupider shit, he figures.

“My fault, Dad? Maybe if you’d been here, maybe if you’d stop pushin’ him all the time, maybe he’d be here now!” Dean yells the last part and he is shocked with the bass in his voice.

Dad moves in fast. The dude is so fast that it shocks Dean sometimes. He grabs Dean and with a clean and jerk pulls him in so tightly to his chest that Dean thinks his t-shirt might rip with the violence of it.

“You need to quit worrying about blame and start worrying about how we are gonna find your brother.” 

His father’s breathes hard in his face. Dean can smell whiskey and smoke and that indefinable something that is John Winchester. His father’s voice is low and clear with an unmistakable rumble. Dean doesn’t back away, but it is not for want of trying. Dad has him clinched hard up against his chest. He couldn’t move if he tried. 

Dean tries to remember the last time his father walloped him. It has been a while. Dad’s physical reminders not to fuck up were usually a solid clip to the head, or when he was younger, a volley of swats to the ass. And once when Dean was 15 and full of piss and vinegar and unable to filter some shitty remark, a sharp openhanded slap that made it clear he had better shut the fuck up and keep a civil tongue in his head. But now, now Dean can see the curl of his father’s fist at his side, the shake of a man barely able to keep it together. Dean offers his chin, doesn’t even flinch. 

Do it, Dad. Do it. 

Dean has seen the force behind John Winchester’s solid right fist. He has watched man and beast alike buckle under its power. 

He knows exactly what he is doing. 

He is aware.

But the blow doesn’t come. He can feel his father tremble with the effort of reining it in, feels the tension throughout his dad’s body, and fuck if he doesn’t shake just a little. 

Dean doesn’t know if the tremble that goes through his body is relief or disappointment. 

Dad slams Dean’s body into the wall just a little this side of hard and then drops him with a final shake.

“Get your shit together; we leave in ten.”

Dean is in the car in eight minutes flat. As long as Sam is alive, he will find him. 

**************************************************************************************

Sam likes Flagstaff. At night he sits in the small room with a hot plate and a dog and reads about Holden Caulfield. It’s a good book he thinks. 

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Sam hears the low rumble of the Impala pull up to the motel. Sam is sitting outside, with bottle of Mr. Pibb. He tips it to his mouth drinks a long pull of icy soda. Other than that though, Sam doesn’t move.

He isn’t surprised. He has been in Flagstaff for almost two weeks. Long enough for Dean to find him, long enough for Dad to hunt him down. Sam knew he didn’t stand a chance in Hell staying gone. His father had tracked far harder prey than Sam.

No, Sam isn’t surprised that he was found but he is shocked when his brother cuts the engine and all but leaps out of the car.

He grabs Sam hard, pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. This is no tentative arm to the shoulder, Dean’s arms are strong and sure. 

Sam lets himself enjoy the moment. Which is fleeting at best because Dean pulls back, and then cuffs Sam abruptly, his right hand scuffing his hair. It is barely a tap and Sam doesn’t even try to dodge. 

“Dude, don’t ever fuckin’ leave like that again.” Dean speaks low, his voice etched with emotion. He pulls Sam in again, rests his hand behind Sam’s neck and tips his forehead into Sam’s. It should feel harsh and sweaty in the Arizona heat but all Sam feels is that as much as he is gonna miss Flagstaff it feels good to have Dean here. 

“’Come on, Sam. Let’s get going.”

The last sight Sam sees of Flagstaff is a big golden retriever trotting purposely down Route 66.

end  
_


End file.
